Beyond Salvation
by steelfeather1776
Summary: She has a shadowy track record and more secrets than most government agencies. What will Barry do when he meets a girl who is so different from himself? Maybe it's true that opposites attract. Rated M for language and possible sexual content later. Barry/OC, set post-season one and may not be canon.
1. Prologue

There are days when being able to read minds is not a blessing.

I run a hand through my short, spiky brunette hair, trying to tune out the girl's thoughts behind me on the bus. She just found out she is pregnant, and she's panicking.

Images of a positive pregnancy test, an older couple, and some steamy bedroom scenes with a blonde guy swirl chaotically in her head. _My parents are going to kill me, and Michael will leave me… Maybe I should just take care of it before anyone finds out…_

Ugh. I hate getting involved in this shit.

I turn around and look the girl in the eyes. She's young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and scared stupid. My glare is not helping her relax.

"You could always give the baby up for adoption," I say quietly. She flinches.

"How—"

"You were muttering out loud." Sometimes a lie is much more convenient than the truth.

"You don't think I should get an abortion?" she asks it almost hopefully. Geez, she's naïve.

"I think it's a big decision, and one you'll have to live with for the rest of your life."

She nods shakily and starts to speak again as the bus lurches to a stop.

"But what—"

"I'm sorry," I interrupt her. "This is my stop."

I hurry off before she can ask me anything else. I try not to poke my nose in other people's business, to be honest, but it isn't always easy with idiots like that girl.

I straighten my shoulders and stride purposefully into the Central City police station.


	2. The Hunt Begins

"I'm looking for a Mr. Allen," I say briskly to the wet-behind-the-ears badge sitting at the front desk. When he doesn't move quickly enough for my tastes, I flash a U.S. Marshal badge at him. He turns a deep red, and I can practically smell his testosterone levels rising, but he points to the stairs on my right and politely directs me to the forensics lab. I give him a bright, insincere smile, and ascend the stairs, noting the strange opulence of the building's interior.

The forensics lab contrasts with the rest of the station; large and free of decoration, it has a few warehouse-style shelves filled with miscellaneous science equipment and evidence. The room doesn't exactly look organized, and I frown, wondering why Barry Allen, who is highly recommended by Captain Singh, would be so unprofessional.

I hear a fast, steady heartbeat, and smell a male who hasn't yet reached the prime of his life. As I walk around the corner of a shelving unit, a silver table comes into view, with a man slumped over it. His long arms are stretched almost to the opposite edge of the table, his face pressed into the cold metal. From what I can see, he is tall and gangly, with rather short light brown hair, a bit spiky and mussed. The half of his face that I can see has excellent bone structure, but he looks too young to be working with the police. Probably an intern, I surmise.

Drawing closer, I study him with interest. He looks pale and tired, with lavender circles under his eyes, and his back rises slightly with steady breaths, which tells me he is asleep. I do something I probably shouldn't and concentrate on his thoughts, his dreams.

He's very troubled, and the intensity of it almost forces me a step backward. I see jumbled, messy images, all juxtaposed together in his head. Pain. Grief. Guilt. A small measure of fear. I see a sobbing, dark-skinned young woman, a confusing flash of yellow and red, and two separate, distinct deaths, a blonde man and a red-haired, middle-aged woman.

With an effort, I shake off the boy's subconscious and lay a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. Instantly, his body tenses, and his visible eye flies open, a startling shade of green. I retract my hand quickly and take a step back to a professional distance, settling easily into the role I've chosen.

He sits up slowly, rubbing his face and making a show of being groggy, but I'm not fooled. I can hear the wheels turning in his head, so to speak, and I know that his initial alarm has been replaced by caution and a weary sort of politeness. I extend my right hand to him firmly.

"Rosalie Foxe, U.S. Marshal," I lie glibly. "I'm looking for Mr. Allen. Is he on break?"

He gives me a cursory glance and stands up, shaking my extended hand with surprising force for his slight build.

"I'm Barry Allen," he says, rather neutrally. "What can I help you with?"

I mask my surprise. He hardly looks like an adult, let alone the most effective forensic scientist in Central City. "I'm tracking a fugitive who I believe has made a stop in Central City. Mark Bowman. He's a serial killer, and I saw his calling card in the newspaper this morning."

When Allen just looks at me, I elaborate. "The girl he left pinned to a skyscraper?" My voice has an edge now, because this boy is wasting precious time.

He straightens up a bit. "Ah, I know which case you're talking about. Let me get you what we have on it."

Externally, he's pretty calm, but I feel emotional turmoil in his mind. He's angry, very angry, and he remembers… _carrying the girl down?_ I pause. Central City's new pet hero, the Flash, apparently carried the victim down the side of the building before too many people saw her…

 _Interesting_ , I think to myself. _This baby-faced youth is the Flash?_ I focus harder on his thoughts.

… _That bastard likes to put them on display… I don't want to deal with this on top of the whole Iris situation…_ what _is that Marshal staring at?!_

I realize that I've been digging in his head for a couple of minutes, and snap back to myself as he hands me a heavy box. "This is all we've learned so far. I'd stay and help explain it, but I have a lunch thing I'm actually late for, so…"

"That's perfectly all right, Mr. Allen. I think I can figure it out."

"Call me Barry," he replies distractedly, slinging a messenger style canvas bag onto his shoulder.

I smile, almost genuinely. "Only if you call me Rosalie. I'll drop it back off with you in the next couple of days." I'm talking to his back as he heads down the stairs ahead of me, and he gives a vague wave and gets into one of the elevators.

I've given myself much more time than I'll need. I will be surprised if it takes me more than 24 hours to sort this mess out.

I take the evidence back to my hotel room and start looking through it. It's mostly unhelpful, just the victim's personal effects and various small items found at the crime scene that might be pertinent, but that's not what I'm looking for.

I pick up the odd daggers he used to pin her to the 20th floor of a skyscraper like a glorified butterfly. They're some form of steel with a chrome finish, a custom job. That won't help me; I've already tried unraveling that lead to no avail. So I take a deep sniff of one of the blades.

The strongest scent is the victim's blood, somewhat dried at this point. I can smell traces of sweat, fear, and pain, indicating that she was conscious when he committed the murder. I focus past that, looking for _him_ , and after a moment I identify the scent of his skin, mixed with a cheap cologne. I file the scent away carefully in my mind, then open my luggage and start browsing for an outfit.

I pull on black faux-leather leggings, a slinky black tank top, and black boots, then fill all eleven of my ear piercings with matte black studs, small hoops, and spikes. I go to the small bathroom with my makeup bag and look in the mirror.

I'm tall for a woman, only an inch shy of six feet, and deceptively slender. I have modest but noticeable curves, and long slim legs. My coffee-colored hair is only a few inches long, and is stuck up in a messy, spiky style. I have somewhat pale skin, large, clear gray eyes, and full pink lips. My face is smooth and wrinkle-free, which makes sense, given my age of 23.

I objectively know that I'm beautiful, but I can't bring myself to personally care. Beauty is only useful to me as a weapon, a distraction when needed, or a seduction tool. Either way, it's a lie, and it only goes skin deep.

I apply black eyeliner, mascara, smoky eyeshadow, and ruby red lip gloss, playing up a 'club look'. Then I slip a fake driver's license into the waistband of my leggings, along with a no-limit platinum credit card, and I'm ready to go out for a night on the town.

Well, not a typical night on the town. More like an urban hunt, because I intend to take care of my prey once and for all.

A cold smile curves my lips. This is going to be fun.


	3. A Difference of Opinion

I catch Bowman's scent wafting from one of Central City's most popular night clubs, and I sashay in, effecting a slightly intoxicated air. I can tell almost immediately that I have the right place when I locate Bowman's thoughts. He's looking for a fresh victim, and I'm close enough to his type that I formulate a quick plan.

I make my way to the dance floor and put my skills to use. My body undulates gracefully under the flashing neon lights, and I plaster a breathless, ditzy smile on my face, emphasizing my sensuality to grab his attention. It works instantly; I can feel him taking note and standing up straighter, adjusting his pants to cover an uncomfortable bulge. Though Bowman doesn't sexually assault his victims, his file theorizes that murder may provide a sort of sexual release for him. I guess the psychiatrists are right in this case.

I continue to dance, flitting from one horny guy to the next as I listen to his thoughts. He's mentally preparing himself for the almost ritualistic components of his routine, having decided on me as a victim. I grind my hips back onto a particularly handsy douchebag, who is so close he's practically penetrating me right here on the floor. At that moment, I have Bowman in the palm of my hand, and he strides up to us, calm mask in place as he seethes internally with jealousy.

I feel his hand on my shoulder and turn to him, widening my eyes in feigned surprise and appreciation. He's very attractive to the casual observer, all lean muscle, blond hair, and bright blue eyes, but I can see the coldness, the utter emptiness in his eyes, and I would be afraid, if I was capable of feeling fear.

"Hi," he says loudly in my ear, trying to be heard over the music. He doesn't realize that I can hear the blood pumping in his veins, let alone his voice. "Is this guy bothering you?" He gestures to the idiot still dry humping me.

I smile breathlessly and nod at him, becoming the damsel in distress in the blink of an eye. He steers me away by the elbow, maneuvering to a dark corner of the room. Classic predator technique; separate the target from the herd. It works to my advantage in this case, though.

"You seemed uncomfortable," he says.

"Yeah, I couldn't figure out how to get rid of him without being mean," I reply, layering on a country accent. I hope I'm not overselling the whole thing.

He doesn't seem suspicious. "Are you from out of town?" _A tourist… no one will miss her…_

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yes, but it's very cute," he says in a low tone.

I blush on cue. "You think so?"

He brushes the back of his hand down my cheek, looking at me from under lowered lashes, partially hiding his empty, shark-like eyes. "Yeah."

When he leans slowly towards me, I mentally brace myself and tilt my head up ever so slightly, which he takes as a cue to press his lips to mine. I inhale and part my lips fractionally, and he sweeps his tongue delicately along my lower lip. I can't help but admire his technique; he's a skilled hunter. I lean forward a bit more as he pulls back, breaking off the kiss. It's very strategic; just enough to tease and tempt a girl into leaving with him, but not enough to make him look desperate or raise any warning flags.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he asks me softly. I nod without a word, and he takes my hand and leads me outside of the club.

The night is full of laughter, heat, music, and darker undertones. A muffled scream a few blocks away, the groans of a homeless man around the corner, a stray dog panting and thirsty. If I had the time, I would go look for the source of the scream, in hopes of a fight. I enjoy fighting; it's the only time I feel truly alive.

My attention is brought back to Bowman after about a half mile as he leads me into a rather dank alley. I balk a little, pulling back on his hand until he turns to face me.

"I thought we were going back to your place," I say, sounding uneasy.

"Relax, sweetheart. It's a shortcut." He tucks me under his arm with an affectionate squeeze.

It's really rather unnerving how normal he is able to seem.

I smile back at him and walk with him for a few more steps. When he tries to get his hands around my neck, I'm ready. I break his grip by twisting his arms outwards until I hear twin snaps, then shove my knee into his diaphragm so hard that three of his ribs break. It takes me less than a second.

He falls to the ground with a raw scream of pain, and I can't help the fiendish grin that spreads across my face. Distantly, I hear the thoughts of a woman who is calling the police, having heard Bowman. I make a mental note that I only have a couple of minutes to finish this.

I tower over Bowman, who is on his knees, then lift him into the air by the throat with one hand. His eyes widen in terror as he tries to kick out at me, and I slam his back against a brick wall, winding him again and aggravating his broken ribs. He whimpers, blood seeping out of the corner of his mouth. I may have punctured a lung. Oops.

"Do you ever wonder how your victims feel right before you kill them?" I ask conversationally. He gurgles something unintelligible. "Yes? Well, allow me to enlighten you."

A _whoosh_ sounds behind me, blowing my hair forward. I whirl around to see the Flash, poised for action.

I smile, a real smile for once. I've gotten so tired of not having any competition.

"Put him down," he orders.

"I can't do that," I reply. "My job here isn't finished yet."

"He doesn't have to die."

"As sweet and naïve as that sentiment is," I reply, "he really does." With that, I snap Bowman's neck as quickly as I can. His lifeless body slumps to the pavement.

In the next instant, I'm pinned to the same wall I had Bowman against, with a very angry Flash in my face. "Seriously?!" His thoughts are full of shock, confusion, and frustration.

In answer, I head-butt him, feeling his nose crunch under my forehead. In the second he flinches, I twist out of his arms and get behind him.

"I'm just following orders, _Barry._ "

It's the wrong thing to say. He whirls around in a movement that's too fast even for my eyes to track, punching me in the face, hard. I taste blood for the first time in years. He doesn't let up, even when I land a couple of hits that had to have broken bones.

By the time I realize I have underestimated him, it's too late. As my vision starts to go dark, I lash out with the last of my strength, and he catches my fist. I lose control of my muscles, and then I feel air rushing past me, and arms carrying my bruised body.

I fall into the darkness headfirst.


	4. A Lack of Understanding

Being woken by a needle sliding into my hand is one of my least favorite things. It just feels… creepy. Faster than the human eye can follow, I use my unoccupied hand to grab a wrist. A pretty red-haired woman gasps and looks up into my eyes, caught in the act. Her heart rate skyrockets, fear and adrenaline pumping through her veins. I soften my grip just a little, listening to her thoughts.

 _Oh, God, I should have told Barry to stay…_ So the Flash is not in the building. How fortunate for me.

"Let me guess," I say drily. "Star Labs?"

She nods jerkily, still staring at me.

"I assume you used anesthesia to make sure I was unconscious before you worked on me?" Another nod. "Sorry to disappoint you. That stuff doesn't affect me."

Her lips thin into a line, and she pulls back against my hand. I let her go; I'm not worried about anything she might do.

Looking around, I see a clean, sterile room. Lots of white. Computers and scientific equipment are set up at various points, along with a couple of large TVs and a display case with the Flash's suit inside. _Really? They just leave it there in the open?_ I'm sitting back on something reminiscent of a hospital bed, with several machines next to me, though I'm not hooked up to any of them yet. I realize with a mild sense of surprise that I am still wearing my own clothes.

"You're Dr. Caitlin Snow, right?" I ask. "Or is it Raymond now? Congratulations, by the way."

She flinches. "How do you know all this stuff?"

"Now, that would be telling." When she just looks at me, I sigh. "Relax. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Forgive me if I don't take your word for it."

I restrain the violent urge to roll my eyes. "If it makes you feel better, you can handcuff me while you run your tests." I don't tell her that I can rip through a set of handcuffs in a heartbeat if I want.

She walks backwards to the desk with the computers, keeping her eyes on me, and pulls out two sets of metal handcuffs. When she tosses me a pair, I cuff my left hand to the left rail on the bed, then repeat the process with the second set of cuffs and my right hand.

"Better?" I ask with a raised eyebrow, and Dr. Snow exhales deeply before coming back to my side and picking up a clean needle.

"I'm going to take a blood sample," she tells me. "Do you have any problems with needles?"

"I don't particularly like them, but they don't bother me anymore. Do what you need to do."

She efficiently draws a sample from the crease of my left elbow, which has faint, tell-tale scars from countless needles before. I lay back and close my eyes, and I hear her relaxing, bit by bit.

"What's your name?" she asks.

"I don't have one."

She stills, and I open my eyes to look at her. "Everyone has a name."

"I don't."

"That's just not possible."

"Why? Because you've never met someone without a name? I assure you, I'm telling the truth."

"Well, didn't your family name you?" She looks so confused, unable to grasp the concept.

"I don't have a family; I never have."

"Then where did you grow up? Who raised you?"

I close my eyes once more. "I thought you were supposed to be figuring out how I tick, not my childhood memories."

I heard her mouth open, her breathing changing in anticipation of speaking before she snapped it shut again. _Was I really about to apologize to this psychopath…?_

"I'm not insane," I tell her. "A sociopath, sure, but I'm not crazy. And Bowman had it coming, one way or another."

"But you didn't have to kill him."

"Yes, I did. His brother is a senator, and Bowman was never going to even be charged with all those murders, let alone serve time. Everyone involved knew he was guilty, the evidence was incontrovertible, and yet he walked. Over and over. Do you know how many girls he murdered, Dr. Snow?"

"…No."

"We've found seventeen bodies so far. Seventeen young women who will never return to their families. They had parents, siblings… boyfriends and girlfriends. What I did tonight prevented more of the same, and I will not apologize for it." My eyes are open by the time I finish speaking, staring straight at her. She can't meet my gaze, shifting her eyes down to where she is taking a small tissue sample from my forearm.

"We don't just go around killing people here," she says after a moment.

"How nice for you to have such a luxury," I reply, beginning to tire of her judgment.

In the uncomfortable silence that follows, Barry Allen blasts into the room. I cock my head at him with a smirk. He looks pissed off, and I mentally calculate how long it will take me to break my handcuffs, rip out the IV needle Dr. Snow has left in my arm, and dodge an attack. Too slow. I'll have to take a couple hits.

He doesn't attack me, though. He just starts pacing back and forth in front of me, running his hand through his hair. I gather that it's a habitual gesture.

"Did you have a question for me, Barry?" I ask after a moment.

"What makes you think you can be judge, jury, and executioner?"

"I'm usually not. This was a special case that the police couldn't be trusted with. Plus, I don't exactly answer to you."

"Who _do_ you answer to?"

"No one you've ever heard of."

"Who are you, really?"

Dr. Snow pipes up. "She said she doesn't have a name."

"He wasn't asking my name," I say, "were you?"

I receive a terse head shake from him, and I sigh deeply before opening my mouth again. "I'm someone who takes care of the worst threats. And I operate from the shadows. I'm not a hero; I have no illusions on that score. I was trained, created really, for a singular purpose."

"Which is?"

"Eliminating targets. Sometimes they can simply be turned over to the police, but there are occasions when, like tonight, that's not enough."

His frustration and borderline exasperation with me is palpable. "This is my city. I can't just allow you to execute targets here."

"What are you going to do about it?" I ask him very seriously. "There is no prison on Earth that can hold me, and even if you decided to go the darker route of, say, torture, you'd discover pretty quickly that my will is a lot stronger than yours." He tenses almost imperceptibly, and his mind begins to shift towards a sort of conflict mode unique to him. I hurry to continue.

"On the other hand, if you give me a chance to convince you, I think you'll see that I am a necessary, neutral force. I only enforce justice, Barry. Let me show you."

I sense his hesitation, and I'm somewhat surprised by it. I actually didn't expect him to possibly go along with my suggestion.

While he paces some more, Caitlin runs a portable X-Ray over my body. I glance at her a bit quizzically, but she won't meet my eyes.

A long moment later, Barry comes to stand in front of me, looking stressed and serious at the same time. "I'll give you one chance," he says, "but only because I think I can change your mind about killing people."

"Very well." I agree with a nod, knowing he cannot persuade me. As I begin to sit up off the bed, two loud snaps ring out. I look down.

 _Damn it._ I forgot that I was still cuffed. Now two separate halves dangle from the bed rails, while their mates are still attached to my wrists. Barry and Dr. Snow gaze at me with wide eyes, while I freeze, trying to look as far from intimidating as possible. I hear beeping at the same time as Caitlin, and she looks down at the display she's holding. If possible, her eyes get even bigger, and she taps Barry, who hasn't taken his eyes off me, on the shoulder.

"What?" he asks.

"These readings…" she says hesitantly. "They aren't possible."

"What are they?"

"Well… she doesn't have any injuries from your fight. It was only an hour ago, and _there isn't a mark on her."_

I shrug under the weight of their combined stares. "This can't be the weirdest thing you've ever seen, right?"


End file.
